Just Another Guy From South Block
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: All parts are not interchangable.


Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I make no profit from them. Good 'N Plenty is a registered trademark of Leaf Brands, a wholly-owned subsidiary of Huhtamaki Oy of Helsinki, Finland (no, really, would I make something like that up?).

Rated: PG

Author's notes: Not much plot, just plot device. Thank you again, Cheri.

Just Another Guy From South Block

By L. M. Lewis

In retrospect, the judge decided the argument hadn't really been about dinner.

It had started at about five-thirty in the afternoon, when he'd found McCormick out in the driveway, sitting on a tarp with pieces of the Coyote arranged around him, and a toolbox open on the pavement alongside. He was studying the contents of a three-ring binder. Hardcastle recognized it at once—Flip Johnson's own design notes.

The binder was not a good sign; by now McCormick had reached the point where he knew the car almost as well as the man who had designed it. Any repair job requiring Flip's notes was not going to be a quick look under the hood. And, besides, the judge had known McCormick to become lost in that notebook for hours, the way a guy can start looking something up in an old high school yearbook, and wind up taking a long stroll down memory lane.

"I thought you were gonna pick up some steaks?"

The kid looked up, then glanced at his watch, the sun, the parts around him, and then back at the judge. "Uh, lost track--"

"Yeah, the usual." The judge shook his head. "You say you're gonna do something but then--"

"But then I wind up having to put more wrench time into the Coyote," McCormick slammed the binder shut and scowled up at him, "because a certain guy I know thinks it's the Batmobile. It's a racecar; you know, a really expensive machine that's designed to go very fast in a big circle. Since this car's known you, it's been shot at, run off of cliffs--"

"I can't help the way you drive."

"Me? I may be behind the wheel, Hardcase, but you are definitely calling the shots." He was on his feet now, and had tossed the binder into the front seat of the car.

It was pretty clear he wanted to stalk off to the gatehouse, which would have had a nice dramatic effect, in addition to preventing a further escalation of hostilities, but there was the array of car parts at his feet. It took several minutes of muttering to reassemble them.

And Hardcastle said, pointedly, as he turned to go back to the house, "--no sense of responsibility."

ooooo

Twenty minutes later, after the judge had already reconciled himself to picking up carry-out, he heard the unmistakable sounds of McCormick in the kitchen. They were constructive sounds, though maybe a bit louder than even usual. He put his jacket back on the hook, frowning. He'd looked in the fridge when he'd come in, very thin pickings. They'd been busy the past few days, what with running down leads on that mob extortion ring. Sometimes groceries took a back seat to crime-busting.

A half-hour after that, he was heading toward the kitchen himself, intending to say something conciliatory, when the front doorbell rang. He turned and saw Frank Harper through the diamond pane glass.

"Not interrupting your dinner, I hope?" Frank asked as Hardcastle ushered him in.

"Not just yet." Hardcastle smiled thinly, and then looked over his shoulder as they both heard one last bang of a pot being put down with unnecessary force. "Is this business, or a social call?" Hardcastle pointed at the file folders tucked under Frank's left arm.

"Business," Frank said flatly.

"Well, then," there was a small crash from the kitchen, followed by an eerie silence, "maybe we should go in the den."

Frank looked concerned. "Everything's okay in there, you think?"

"Probably."

ooooo

Frank had placed the files on Hardcastle's desk in front of him and opened the top one. "Harry Bushnell, you remember him?"

"Who could forget 'Hacksaw Harry'?" the judge replied grimly. "But I thought he was strictly East Coast the last ten years. We made things pretty hot for him here."

"You made things hot for him. Hey, maybe he's heard you're retired. Anyway, he's back. Now he's calling himself an 'investment banker', only in this case, the incentive for the investors is not getting their legs broken."

"Beats a toaster every time. But you know this is kind of a strange coincidence, 'cause I've been looking into some unfinished business with a local extortionist name of Louie Turnello."

Frank reached over and flipped the file's contents to the last page—a surveillance photo that included a fuzzy, but recognizable image of the judge's four by four in the background.

"So that's who's pulling the strings on old Louie," the judge smiled in satisfaction. "I thought this was too big an operation for a small-fry like Turnello. We just hadn't gotten to the top of the food chain yet."

"Have you or Mark made contact with anybody in the local operation yet? Have you let yourselves be seen?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No, why?"

Frank turned several pages back in the file, to a photocopy of a typed list of twelve names. "Recognize any of these?"

The judge picked up the piece of paper and frowned. "You mean besides McCormick? Yeah, this guy, Mitchell, he was up before me about six months before I retired. He robbed convenience stores. I remember he always took a couple boxes of Good 'N Plenty along with the cash. That was his MO--licorice." Hardcastle shook his head. "Oh, and this one, Ricardo Alamedas. He only stole pink Caddies, lots of pink Caddies. The rest . . ." he studied the list, "I'm not so sure. I'd have to check my files."

"I already checked theirs. Every one of them is a two-to-fiver sentenced by you. We found this list on a guy who works for Bushnell."

"Hard to remember all the small fry," McCormick said dryly. Both men looked up, startled by his voice. He was leaning against the doorframe. He crossed to the desk and took the list from Hardcastle. "I knew three of these guys from Quentin." He thwacked the paper with one finger and laid it back down on the desk. "All members of your fan club, Judge."

"I sat on that bench for twenty years. That's a lot of cases." Hardcastle muttered defensively.

"Well, they all remember _you_. You can trust me on that." McCormick sat down in the chair next to Harper. "What'd'ya have?"

Harper cast a quick glance at the judge and turned to Mark. "A couple weeks ago, right after we got that list, we contacted the guy whose name is at the top, Bill Rohmer, parolee, just out a couple months ago. His P.O. put pressure on him and he rolled over. Told us these guys from Jersey had phoned him, they'd promised him six figures for a one-time job. Up till now he's been a small-time thief. He was nervous, figured they wanted him to kill somebody. We reeled him in. He had a meet with the guys from Jersey, set up for the 12th."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Only this morning we found him in his room at the Alta Vista, OD'd on alcohol and valium."

"An accident?"

"With a plastic grocery bag tied over his head."

"Murdered?"

"We had him under surveillance; no one went in or out of his place. It was suicide. He probably realized he'd gotten himself between a rock and a hard place."

Mark sat there with an indecipherable look on his face.

Hardcastle put the list back in the folder and closed it. "Probably heard a little more about Harry."

"Yeah," said Frank, "that may be. At any rate, the M.E. is sitting on the autopsy. There's no family. So far we're just calling him a 'John Doe'."

"You mean you hope to go through with the meet?" Hardcastle's eyebrows were rising. Then he caught Frank's sideward glance at McCormick. "Oh, no, not him. That wouldn't float for two minutes."

"Why not? Like you said, Harry's been East Coast for the last few years. He's out of touch, otherwise he wouldn't have McCormick's name on that list."

"Just let him find out Rohmer's dead; he'll move on one of the other guys, you can set it up again."

"That's ten other possibles, and it's only a matter of time before he figures out his guy's not coming back, and the list has been compromised. Meanwhile we have a window of opportunity here, and Mark--"

"It could work." The other two men, intent on their argument, snapped around to look at McCormick. "Look, they need somebody who isn't going to trip over the basic stuff, somebody who knows there are six tiers in the south block and the Crips are all on level two. We're the same build, same height. His hair was darker." They stared at him. McCormick shrugged. "Yeah, I knew him."

"Sorry, Mark," Frank fumbled for a moment, like a man trying to remember exactly what he had said, "I didn't know."

"We were acquaintances, you know, just had some stuff in common. I didn't even know he was out."

"Doesn't matter. He's not doing this." Hardcastle picked the file up and tossed it emphatically toward Frank's side of the desk.

McCormick ignored him. "Do you know what the job is, the one that's worth six figures?"

"No, but we've got an idea--" Frank glanced over at Hardcastle.

"Yeah." McCormick reached over and picked up the file from where Hardcastle had tossed it.

"We've got some solid leads from the Turnello end," the judge interjected. "This is too risky."

"So I'll need what you've got on Rohmer. He had a girlfriend, Sheila? . . . No, Sherry. She dumped him while he was on the inside. His mom's dead. He had a dog."

"I thought- -"

"Yeah, acquaintances, really, but you talk to people."

"You're in _my_ judicial stay, you know."

McCormick turned on him with a flash of anger. "Yeah, Judge, I _know_. But that doesn't mean you can tell me what to do, only if I don't do what you want, you get to pull my ticket. So I'm going to help Frank here, with an official police investigation. You think that's grounds to revoke?" He said these last words with a tone of defiance.

Frank was leaning forward in his chair, "Wait, now, guys--"

But Hardcastle had already sat back, looking like a man who had been struck in the face. He said nothing for a moment. When he finally did speak, his voice was low and even and directed at the younger man. "All right, your deal. But you'd better do it right. You only get one chance with Harry Bushnell, and I don't care how many guys they have listening on the wire, you'll be flying this one solo."

He stood up and walked out without waiting for a reply. He heard Frank speaking urgently, but the words of McCormick's answer were lost; all he could make out was the cold anger. He walked into the kitchen and leaned on the counter with both hands, trying to figure out where he'd let this thing go wrong. McCormick was right about one thing, this judicial stay was like having one tool, and that was a hammer.

He thought about the file in the basement with Bushnell's name on it. There were some photographs in there . . . No, he didn't think even _those_ would change McCormick's mind in the mood he was in now.

He heard them in the hallway, McCormick letting Frank out, saying goodbye. Then the buzzer on the stove startled him out of his thoughts.

"Mac and cheese," McCormick said matter-of-factly, from the kitchen doorway. Then he grabbed a couple of potholders and was pulling the casserole out and putting it on the kitchen table as though the last half-hour had not happened.

_So that's it, huh? One minute it's all up there on the surface, the next it's business as usual._ Of course, how the hell else did the kid hold it all together? Hardcastle had wondered a few times if there was a wall anywhere at San Quentin half as high as the ones McCormick used to keep his past and his present sorted out.

Hardcastle allowed himself to go along with it: plates and glasses and silverware, sitting down and dishing up. It was easier to pretend to be eating an ordinary meal than to deal with all the stuff that had been said, and not said.

It was only when they were nearly done that McCormick spoke about it again, in the most casually neutral tone. "I'll need to borrow the truck tomorrow, if I don't get the Coyote fixed in time. I'm supposed to meet Frank at the station at 6:30."

"S'alright," Hardcastle muttered, "I can drive you."

ooooo

At six they were driving south on the PCH. That afternoon, McCormick had said something about a crack in the head gasket. He'd made some calls, hit up Jimmy Walsh, an old racing buddy, for tools and shop time next week so he could replace it. Hardcastle had listened to his end of the conversation, making ordinary plans for a few days down the road, as if there was nothing else standing between him and an immediate future.

Now the kid was staring pensively out the window at the Pacific sunset. He hadn't said much since they'd gotten in the truck, and now they'd be at the station in another couple of minutes. Hardcastle felt the moment slipping away.

"What'cha thinking?" he asked awkwardly, keeping his eyes steadily on the road. There was a moment more of silence. As it stretched out, the judge began to think he wasn't going to get an answer.

Then, with the police station in sight, McCormick shifted in his seat and spoke, hesitantly. "I was trying to remember the dog's name."

"What dog?" Hardcastle pulled into the lot and looked at him.

"Rohmer's. He had a dog, some kind of spaniel. That's what he used to talk about, why he hated you so much. When he got arrested he couldn't make bail so he never found out what happened to his dog."

"He didn't have any family? They probably took it to the pound." Hardcastle frowned. "_I_ didn't do anything to his dog,"

"Yeah, I know." McCormick opened his door and started to step down. He looked back over his shoulder at the judge. "We just had to hate _somebody_." Then he closed the door before Hardcastle had a chance to reply.

ooooo

Once inside, McCormick was swept into a circle of last minute activity. Hardcastle, standing to the side, out of the way, had to admit the wire was a good one, smaller than anything he'd seen before and, when stitched into the seam of McCormick's jacket, almost undetectable. It was the 'almost' part that set Hardcastle on edge.

They changed out wallets, Frank taking McCormick's and giving him Rohmer's, with the driver's license photo suitably altered. The judge watched the kid, sitting at the table while the others talked over and around him, about details and arrangements. McCormick was going through the wallet, one item at a time, looking at each thing carefully before putting it back. Hardcastle smiled. He had no doubt that if he asked the kid what Rohmer's social security number was, or when and where his next parole meeting was, he'd know the answer. _A born con._

The smiled slipped. It wouldn't matter how good he was. Harry would kill somebody on a whim. The only difference between him and Charles Manson, was that Harry turned a profit at it.

Then it was time to go. Frank was at his side. "You wanna hold on to this?" He handed him McCormick's wallet. "You coming in the van with me? It's out back."

Hardcastle slipped it into his pocket and nodded. The kid was already in the hallway with one of the tech guys fussing over something. Saying 'Be careful' at this point would be just more words.

"He'll be okay." Frank said as he pointed him toward the back door. "He's really good at this stuff."

Hardcastle looked at Frank and shook his head, smiling thinly. "He's the most facile liar I've ever met . . . except when he gets angry."

ooooo

The van was parked only a half-block from the alleyway where McCormick had instructions to be--a hundred yards, tops. Inside, the two technicians cross checked their recording units and adjusted various controls. Hardcastle watched out the back window as a large, late model sedan crawled by them, and then turned in where Mark had already parked Rohmer's rusty Civic.

"It's Bushnell." Frank had an earpiece in. "The other unit's got a visual."

There was no direct sight line from the van. But the wire, which up till now had just been the occasional quiet mutterings of McCormick, and the opening of car doors, now crackled to life.

Hardcastle heard Bushnell's voice. He introduced himself as Harry Duvall. McCormick answered warily with Rohmer's name. Bushnell had him searched. Hardcastle suddenly realized Frank was holding his breath, too. A man could empty a whole clip from a 9mm in the time it would take them to get to that alley.

No shots were fired. The conversation continued. It was questions from Bushnell at first. One of the goons must have taken the wallet. Social security number? Who was his P.O.? McCormick answered, allowing a little irritation to slip into his voice. _No, kiddo, don't push this one. _

Then it was all business. Once the preliminaries had been established to Bushnell's satisfaction, the man seemed almost eager to discuss his proposal. There was a rustle of paper; he was showing McCormick something.

"This guy, you know him?"

"Yeah." The voice that answered was harsh, almost unrecognizable as McCormick's. "He's a judge."

"I thought you'd know him. He's the guy I want done."

"Done?"

"Yeah, 'done'."

"He's a _judge_." The last word was spat out. "They burn guys for that."

"That's why it's worth $100 g's. They told me you might be the guy for this job, that you and this judge had some unfinished business."

There was a pause. The silence was broken by McCormick's voice, low and sullen. "He's scum. I can find you a hundred guys who'd take him out for nothing. He's not worth a 100 thou."

Frank glanced aside at Hardcastle, chin down, listening intently. "He's good," Frank said. "I'd swear he's channeling Rohmer." The judge didn't reply.

"It's your money." The shrug was almost audible. "You can get me a piece?"

"Eddie, give him your Glock." There were footsteps, and the sound of a gun being unloaded and changing hands.

"Do I get an advance?"

Bushnell laughed harshly. "I thought the money wasn't important."

"Call it frosting," McCormick drawled coldly. Then there was another silence.

"You got him," Hardcastle said, "conspiracy, solicitation to commit murder, and maybe about ten weapons charges. Shut it down."

Frank put out one hand. "Mark was right; he said I'd probably have to sit on you. They're almost done."

"He's pushing this guy's buttons."

"He's gonna walk away from it. Then we'll take down Bushnell."

"Five up front, the rest on completion." There were more shuffling sounds. Suddenly there was a thud and a grunt and Bushnell's voice was right up in the van with them, hissing sharp. "Three days. Don't even think about crossing me. You think this judge screwed you over? He's got nothing on what I'll do to you if you cross _me_."

Then a scraping sound, and the voices were further away, car doors opening and being slammed, an engine starting, the sound echoed by noises from the street as the sedan pulled by the van again and accelerated, turning left at the next corner. Frank issued orders on the radio. Hardcastle was out of the back of the van and moving toward the alley even before they heard McCormick's voice telling them it was all clear.

McCormick was leaning heavily against the Civic. He turned his head as Hardcastle rounded the corner into the alley.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah, don't fuss. Don't say 'I told you so.' What kind of management technique is that, anyway? Punching the help in the gut."

"I told you so. Do you wanna sit down?"

McCormick shook his head no. Frank and the techs had brought the van around.

"Got'em." Frank hopped out of the back. "Bushnell and his whole crew, two blocks away. You can add on resisting arrest." Frank took the 9mm and the clip off the hood of the car.

McCormick held out the five thousand, a stack of bills wrapped with a rubber band. "You got what you need, Frank?"

"I'd say between the gun, this money, the tape, and Milt's picture in Bushnell's car, we got a slam dunk."

"Good."

McCormick handed back Rohmer's wallet and slipped off his jacket for the technician waiting at his elbow with an exacto knife in one hand. "You want us to get this repaired?" The tech asked, after he had slit the wire free from the jacket.

"No," McCormick shivered. "I'll get it fixed later. You want me to drive this piece of junk back to the station for you?" he pointed at the Civic.

"Well, at least _it_ runs." Hardcastle added.

"Watch your mouth, Hardcase," McCormick smiled, "or you'll be riding back with Frank."

ooooo

The full moon was nearly overhead as they drove home up the PCH. The kid was still not saying much, but now it seemed more like embarrassment than anger. They were pulling into the drive when Hardcastle asked, "You hungry?"

"What is there?"

"Left-over macaroni and cheese, I think."

"My favorite." They climbed out of the truck, Mark a little stiffly at first, and Hardcastle took his elbow walking up the steps. "I'm okay." McCormick shook free. "He just sorta took me by surprise."

"That's Harry, kind of a psychopath that way. I'd show you the file with the pictures in it, but then you might not be able to eat."

"It's okay. Frank already gave me all the gory details."

"He did?"

"Yeah, I think he was trying to talk me out of it after you stomped off yesterday."

Hardcastle snorted. "He knew he was gonna be stuck in the van with me if things went bad."

"Yeah, there's that." McCormick smiled.

"But you still did it. And you call me a donkey."

"Well, what kind of an argument is that? 'This guy is the worst thing since Jack the Ripper, so we don't think you should take him down.' Come on, Judge."

Hardcastle turned the key in the lock and opened the front door. "Anyway, kid, you did okay tonight, and I'm glad you did it--"

"Ha," McCormick interrupted, "especially since that was your photo the psycho was waving around."

"I just wish you hadn't sounded so damn convincing." There was a question on the edge of the judge's smile.

"Yeah, well, that," McCormick was looking down, picking at the loose threads on the inside of his jacket, "guess I've had a lot of practice lying." He looked up again, eye-to-eye with the judge, grinning. "It's like riding a bicycle . . . Hey, you ever change out the head gasket on a high performance engine?"

"No," Hardcastle gave him a push in the direction of the kitchen.

"Well, I'd say a guy is never too old to learn, even if he is really, _really_ old. And I tell you, once you've gone through the experience, you will never, ever again want the Coyote to have all four wheels off the ground at the same time, unless it's up on a hydraulic lift."

ooooo

**Two days later**

**"**That's a lot of parts." Hardcastle looked at the worktable dubiously. "You sure you know how everything goes back together?"

McCormick stood up from over the engine block holding yet another part. "Do I ask you if you know the difference between the Fifth Amendment and the Eighth?"

"No, but there's only twenty-six of them, I think you've got this thing in about twice that many pieces already."

"You just fetch the wrenches; let me worry about where everything goes."

There was some mild general cussing from under the hood as a part refused to cooperate.

"You really think this is a one-day project?"

"Yeah, gotta have it back together today, unless you want to lend me the truck again." McCormick put the last piece alongside the others and leaned against the table, wiping his hands on a rag. "The funeral is tomorrow."

Hardcastle nodded. "You want company?"

"Nah, it'll just be me and maybe a couple other guys at the graveside."

"I'd probably make 'em nervous." There was a long pause. McCormick didn't reply. Hardcastle picked up a piece from the table, looked at it and put it down. Then he said, "The dog's name was Rudy."

"What?" McCormick looked over at him, momentarily puzzled.

"Rohmer's dog. It was a spaniel mix, 'bout four years old. It was taken to Harbor Shelter by animal control after Rohmer was arrested. It wound up with a family in Palos Verdes."

"You did a background check on a dog?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just a couple phone calls."

McCormick was grinning. "The people at animal control thought you were nuts, didn't they?"

"Yeah. I told them I had a friend who was lying awake nights worrying about it."

McCormick shook his head. "Palos Verdes, huh? Very nice. I bet they call him Rudolf now. They take him jogging. Steak tartar."

"Yup."

"Poor mutt's probably confused as hell."

"Probably. But he'll get used to it."

"Yeah." McCormick was still smiling as he turned back to the engine. "He will."


End file.
